


i would like you to love me

by quiet_awkward



Series: mockingbird [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Cirilla helps him with that, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fix-It, Geralt is there, He's coming to terms with it, Jaskier is patient, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Pining, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, but he's trying his best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24019273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quiet_awkward/pseuds/quiet_awkward
Summary: Jaskier’s soulmark says, in small, emboldened, sharp letters,I’m sorry.He doesn't know what they're apologizing for, but he's sure that no matter what it is, it can't be bad. Not when it meansI love you.He's wrong.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: mockingbird [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1733842
Comments: 31
Kudos: 978





	i would like you to love me

Jaskier plucks numbly at his lute as he sits back at camp. There’s no tune, no key, no melody -- only the hollow echo of sound.

Borch comes to stand by his side, a quiet, imposing presence, and says, "He's naive."

Jaskier laughs wetly and gently puts his lute back into its case. The words inscribed along the nape of his neck burn unbearably. He desperately clutches it, uncaring of how his nails dig in, doesn't care for the sting it brings, because it's incomparable to the wildfire blazing across his skin. He clings onto it as if it were a lifeline. It certainly feels like it. And maybe -- maybe it is.

It's all he has left.

He has nothing left.

"Perhaps," Jaskier assents, glancing shortly at Borch -- who looks back without pity, but understanding -- and then over to the cliff, the pieces of his heart aching, tormenting him, at the sight of Geralt standing by him lonesome, head hanging, posture tight and rigged in the way Jaskier knows hurts more than the witcher would ever admit.

Jaskier smiles bitterly -- brittlely, feeling too small, too tender, too exposed. "He's never asked for anything, did you know? I've always wondered what he wanted -- what he would want. He -- He always talked about _necessity,_ in those times. He'd never think for himself, would never allow himself to fathom luxuries. It was never about being able to, whether he could or couldn't. He simply wouldn't.

"And then when he _finally_ finds something, he demands it. The prick. He makes a wish when he could _ask,_ and now instead of asking, he screams at your face and pushes you away."

He looks up at Borch. Borch, to his credit, stands still and quiet and patient. "Perhaps it's naivety," Jaskier says. "I'd say he's just dumb."

Borch laughs. It's a low, guttural sound. "You have a way with words, bard," he says, nodding in approval. Of what, Jaskier doesn't know. Doesn't care enough to find out.

"Where will you go now?" he asks, rearing the conversation away from his heartache.

"Away," Borch says, a small, cryptic smile gracing his face.

Jaskier nods. "Safe travels. This was...delightful, in many aspects," he grimaces, "But I do hope we never encounter each other again. No offense. Not that you and the twins have been less than -- unpleasant. Just, please do mind that this never happens again."

The man -- dragon? Jaskier can't decide on which -- looks at Jaskier as though humoring him. Maybe he is. After all, he _is_ a dragon, first and foremost, and, on top of that, a rare breed. Jaskier would be worried about being in the presence of something that could eat him, but he's tired. His heart's been ripped out of his chest, and he's had enough.

"And you?" Borch inquires.

Jaskier peeks over to Geralt one last time, and he _aches,_ chest lurching, neck burning. "I'll go. It's all he's ever asked of me, and it's all I can ever give him, it seems."

"He'll come around."

Jaskier smiles. "I know. I just," he breaks off and swallows. He stares at his shaking hands. "I would like some time away from him."

Borch nods in understanding, and after that, he leaves. Jaskier doesn't stay too long either. He feels too numb, too worn out, and as much as he yearns to be at Geralt's side, it isn't his place.

It's never been his place.

.

At some point, Jaskier finds himself teetering down the mountain. Each step he takes is heavier, more nauseating, more harrowing. He feels a part deep inside himself tugging backwards, a pull at the core of him painfully yanking -- feeling it detached and numb and absent.

It's all so surreal. It doesn't feel real.

Roach stares at him when he arrives at the base of the mountain. She shakes her head and snorts uneasily and shifts her hooves, tail flitting around at his presence.

"He'll be on his way down soon," Jaskier coos softly to her as he picks up his pack beside her. "Don't worry about him."

She nudges him, and Jaskier's heart swells unbearably. Jaskier wills himself not to cry, even as he chokes on a sob. Her nose drags against his doublet, and all Jaskier wants is to run his hand through her mane and hold on. To not let go. To _stay._

"Goodbye, sweet girl," he whispers, voice whistling, and gives in to the urge to kiss the top of her head, smoothing a hand down her neck.

Roach whinnies quietly and flicks her ear, nudging him again, nipping at his shirt when he moves to leave. He hushes her, brushes his fingers against her mane one last time, and turns to go.

.

The first thing Jaskier's mother teaches him is to never believe a story.

(Actually, it's the second. The first thing she teaches him is it's inappropriate to run down the corridors of the house naked. _No,_ it's not okay in his breeches, either. But, well, Jaskier is telling no one about that.)

((He has. He got smashed, once, after a terrible falling out with the Countess de Stael, _again,_ and loosened his tongue to the point he told Geralt most of his many shortcomings. He's not sure how much he's given away, but he's certain _that_ one, he has.

Geralt had kindly, graciously, never spoken of them. There had been times, though, where Jaskier would catch Geralt watching him with a gleam in his eyes, and Jaskier would find out that Geralt is a gods damn prankster.))

Jaskier is around seven. He hears through one of his tutors the great tale of how humans gained their lands, fighting against elves who were undeserving and selfish and inhumane. He looks at his mother inquisitively and asks her, "We killed them? Are they really that evil?"

His mother's soft gaze lands on him as she crouches to his level and brushes his hair away from his face. "Not necessarily," she answers. "Not all of them were bad."

"But then why did they all deserve to die?"

"Because in a fight, people get hurt, Julian, and, sometimes, in a battle, they'll die."

Jaskier frowns. "Isn't hurting people bad?"

She smiles, small and sad. "Sometimes, it is the lesser evil."

"But if it's evil, why are they singing ballads about us as if we're heroes?"

"And that, my dear jaskier, is why it's a _story,"_ she hums and picks him up, placing him on her hip. "It is a tale. A narrative spun by pretty words and a false idyllic dream. Humans are much too simple and narrow minded to see otherwise. There's more to it than you'll ever know, than anyone will ever truly perceive. Never believe one, my love. Look and _see,_ observe all and everything possible. That way, you'll already be better than most, and safer than most."

The words had been cryptic and overwhelming at the time, and so all Jaskier did was simply nod.

He understands it more than ever, now.

He's met the elves -- some, at least, but the greatest representative of them all -- and he's looked at them, and he's thought about how wrong humans are, and how cruel humans can be, _have been,_ that these elves are desperately looking to survive just as much as humans do, that they just want to _live._ Humans took that away from them. Humans _denied_ them that. Listening to the story from someone else's eyes grants so much more.

And so Jaskier looks to Geralt.

 _Witchers don't have feelings,_ they all claim. They shout, and they scream, and they throw rocks, and they fear, and they cower. Witchers are monsters. Witchers are heartless fiends like the beasts they hunt.

Oh, but they do, Jaskier wants to counter, to bellow, to _sing._ They feel so much, and they _feel too much._

He watches Geralt frown, hand palming over his breastplate just where his scarred soulmark is. Jaskier's heart swells profoundly, feeling too big for his chest. Geralt glances at Jaskier with a raised eyebrow and drops his hand, going back to clutching Roach's reins. Jaskier can't help the stupid grin splitting across his face. Can't help the fond, liquid warmth spreading through his veins.

Geralt's marred skin is more than evidence of that. He fights monsters without caring if he'd survive. He lives and travels and resigns himself to a life of hatred and resentment he internalizes, that it's _normal_ and he deserves it. He's burnt off his soulmate's mark because he'd rather lower his chances of meeting them -- would rather not know he's met them -- and then one day inevitably lose them. As a witcher, Geralt believes he deserves nothing more, nothing less.

And Geralt deserves _so much._

It's evident enough that he was given a soulmark.

Those who love to hink otherwise can lick a cow's arse.

"Where to now, beloved?" Jaskier hums, smiling up at Geralt.

Geralt looks down at him, and sometimes -- Jaskier isn't too sure, perhaps he's projecting, but -- there's this infinitesimal flash of -- of this sort of _wonder_ in his eyes. Perhaps it's less of wonder, but more of awe, or _surprise._ He stares briefly at Jaskier, looking as if he doesn't understand why Jaskier is still here.

Jaskier's heart lurches.

"Vizima," Geralt grunts, and sets Roach at a walking pace, slow enough that Jaskier would keep up easily and wouldn't wear out too soon.

Jaskier's cheeks hurt with how wide his smile becomes. "Vizima," he repeats.

.

Jaskier's soulmark says, in small emboldened, sharp letter, **_I'm sorry._**

He doesn't know what they're apologizing for, but he's sure that no matter what it is, it can't be bad. Not when it means _I love you._

Maybe it's love at first sight. Maybe it's an accident -- they could crash into each other and squeal apologies at each other. Maybe they're long time friends and they're joking around, and the other laughs, an _"I'm sorry"_ spilling from their lips, eyes crinkling in the corners with mirth. Maybe -- maybe they have a fit. An argument of sorts, because no fight can be so terrible that his soulmate says _I love you,_ and his soulmate goes to him -- _comes back to him --_ and whispers an apology, meaningful and significant and truthful enough to mean they love him.

The romantic part of Jaskier had swooned at the prospect.

Jaskier sees, now, how far-fetched and stupid he was. It will never be so simple. Humans are rarely ever so simple. _Fights_ can be so much more. Devastating. Heartbreaking. Deploring. It's a tough lesson to be learned, with Geralt, and learn he shall.

But then, he doesn't care about whatever fight he will have with his soulmate. It couldn't possible amount to this excruciating pain he feels now. It doesn't matter. _They_ don't matter. No amount of apologies would heal the damage dealt to his heart, could possibly compare to the heavy yearning tugging in his gut.

Jaskier, with an irreparably wounded heart, couldn't care more about his soulmate, not when what he wants more than ever is _Geralt._

And Geralt -- with no soulmark, with no intentions of meeting his own soulmate -- would never want Jaskier.

.

Geralt isn't Jaskier's soulmate.

This is a fact. How so, you may ask. Jaskier will tell you that he knows this because Geralt isn't the type to apologize. He wouldn't come up to you and look you in the eye and outright say,

"I'm sorry."

Not in words, at least. Geralt has never been forthright with his feelings, much less his _words._ Jaskier hadn't noticed at first, but he'd pick up on it and just be -- well, _confused._ To be honest, he'd initially thought it was Geralt being aggressively passive and was not-so-subtly trying to threaten and get rid of Jaskier.

Not that it would have worked, even if it was.

But along the way, Jaskier has come to understand Geralt -- for the most part. It's the tiny details he has to latch onto, the attentive, lingering gazes, the differences in his grunts from brusqueness and placidity, the care he takes into shoving Jaskier with his scarred, calloused hands. It's in the way he throws a heavy cloak over Jaskier's shoulders during the colder days, nearly making Jaskier fall over himself. How Geralt would scrutinize him and look away before Jaskier would understand that Geralt was merely checking for injuries akin to him keeping stock of the items in his bag. How Geralt would growl at Jaskier to fuck off or go faster, but do nothing else. How his eyes soften and dilate just the slightest bit, and there's the tiniest quirk of his lips when Jaskier does something amusing.

It's all that he doesn't say. It's all that he just _does._

But Geralt isn't his soulmate.

Even more, Geralt wouldn't love him.

Jaskier doesn't mind, though. He has enough love for them both.

Geralt may not be Jaskier's soulmate -- but Jaskier loves him all the same.

.

Everything is different, after.

No -- that's not right. Everything is the same. Everything is just duller, a bit greyer, a bit darker. But everything is much the same as it always has been. The roads are more barren and dry. The villages he passes through are loud and rambunctious, or quiet and wary, but he stops by them and plays for them. He makes sure they're laughing and roaring as he prances about. It's what he's always done his entire life, but there's no feeling to it, anymore.

He enjoys it, still -- loves it. It's his _life._ But after -- after, when he puts his lute away and turns in for the night, the hollow ache in his chest reappears. The gaping hole there mocks him, laughing at him, telling him he'll never feel that bright flair of joy again.

Jaskier's mark burns, and he clamps down on his neck to soothe it. It doesn't stop burning. It never has.

It's suffocating.

It's been two years.

.

Jaskier remembers, as a child, that his parents weren't soulmates. They never spoke of it, of course, but Jaskier had eyes, and he had ears, and he could use both of them. They didn't interact with each other unless necessary, didn't speak directly to each other unless necessary, and they were rarely in the same room together.

His father didn't take too well to Jaskier's presence. He had just been -- _cold._ And distant. Absent.

His mother spoiled him. Loved him. Hovered over him.

He heard rumors that his mother loved someone else.

It made him question why she was even there, then, when it was so clear she wasn't happy where she was.

He asked, and she stood quiet for a while. Jaskier felt chastised even with the silence, shame filling his gut. But, then, she answered, "It doesn't matter that I love him. This is my life, Julian. And even he wouldn't interfere with that."

"But you're not happy."

She ran her hand through his hair. "I've lived my life without him before. I certainly can continue it without him."

Jaskier scrunched his nose. "Well, it sounds easy enough."

His mother had laughed as if there was a joke. "No. No, my dear jaskier. It's not easy at all."

.

A well-meaning traveler tells Jaskier when he's in Novigrad at a tavern, that a white-haired witcher had been seen winding the south. Jaskier ends up tuning the man out, who starts raving about the villages and cities Nilfgaard has pillaged, how barbaric they are. His heart goes cold and heavy in his chest, and he knows exactly where Geralt's heading.

News was that Nilfgaard had been seen encroaching on the land near Cintra.

Jaskier momentarily takes shelter back at Oxenfurt, set on teaching for the winter -- away from the war, away from the south, away from Geralt -- until someone comes riding through the town, yelling, hollering, that Cintra has fallen.

The Lioness of Cintra is dead.

Nilfgaard is heading north.

Dread sinks deep in Jaskier's gut. His neck flares up and he flinches, hand jerking up to touch it, and halts. He clenches his hand and brings it down to his side, heart pounding, lungs seizing, and a cold sheet of iced air wafts over him.

No one speaks anything of the princess, never talks of Cirilla. Did she make it out? Did she survive?

_Did Geralt?_

Jaskier's heart jolts painfully enough that he nearly buckles. There's a sharp tug at his core, and suddenly he feels the urge to hurl the contents of his stomach. He itches to leave. To flee. To go _home._

"Master Pankratz! Are you alright?"

He glances up and sees a student of his hovering over him worriedly. "I'm fine," he answers, trying for a smile.

Sara frowns at him, disbelieving. "No, you're not." Her features soften, then. "It's about Nilfgaard, isn't it? It's horrible. They're just sacking through The Continent."

"That they are," he hums, catching his breath. He hopes Geralt is okay. Geralt _has_ to be okay.

She looks at him. "Will you be leaving?"

"Why should I?"

Her lips quirk into a smile, eyebrows raised. "Because you're a _bard,_ Master Pankratz. You're in love with those stories of yours. Or shall I simply call you Jaskier from now on?"

His heart pounds thunderously in his chest as he considers it, neck stinging brightly. It's not even a matter of question really.

He matches her smile. "Jaskier _is_ such a fine name, isn't it?"

She hums thoughtfully. "It is when someone's using it."

"Thank you, Sara. You've been a wonderful student, mind you."

"Of course I am!"

.

Jaskier doesn't leave until two weeks later. He waits until he hears news of Nilfgaard again, that this time, they've sent out a reward for anyone to bring in a young, female Cintran refugee, and that they're continuing their trek northward. They're looking to take Sodden Hill.

Hope flares in his gut even as dread kicks in. They might be looking for the princess. They _must_ be. They wouldn't just be looking for an ordinary ex-citizen, and Calanthe wouldn't have so simply let them ransack the castle along with the life of her beloved granddaughter. And if Cirilla is alive --

_Geralt is too._

So Jaskier leaves. Makes his apologies to the university and his students, and starts his journey towards the war.

It would take much more to kill Geralt of Rivia. The witcher wouldn't simply fall over at the hands of some measly _humans._ How disappointing that would be! There's a wonderful tale to be told when he _would_ fall, and that tale isn't happening anytime soon.

Because by the gods, if Geralt is dead, Jaskier will turn to necromancy _just_ to kill him himself.

.

Would Jaskier wish for Geralt to be his soulmate? No.

Would Jaskier wish to be Geralt's soulmate? Also no.

Because Jaskier's content with just this. Jaskier has long since stopped caring about the soulmate ordeal because he has Geralt. Don't get him wrong; he's still looking forward to meeting his soulmate, but until then -- _until then,_ he wants to be with Geralt.

So he's fine with this. They have a status quo. Jaskier is a stowaway that's not-so-subtly in love with Geralt, and Geralt is Jaskier's best friend.

("You don't even _have_ friends," Geralt grunted, once.

Jaskier had merely squawked. "I have plenty!"

"And that explains why you're here all the time, then."

"Well, whether you like it or not, _you_ are one of them."

"No. You just screech in my ear the entire time."

Jaskier smiled teasingly. "That's what i do to _all_ my friends, my dearest witcher."

 _"Fuck off,"_ Geralt said, though there was no malice or frustration. Only fondness.)

But also because no matter how Geralt appears apathetic towards the subject, it pains him to an extent -- the constipated bastard. He truly does value his soulmate. Values them enough that he's burnt his soulmate off simply because he didn't want them getting involved in his lifestyle, _The Path,_ or whatever he calls it. he's never broached anything about the topic, but Jaskier can infer. From the way he rejected his Child Surprise, yelling at Jaskier's face in frustration that The Path is no place for a child; from how he looked into Jaskier's eyes and spoke with a finality that he didn't want anyone needing him; and from how he chose to tie himself to Yennefer.

It wouldn't sit right with Jaskier to take that away from him, and Jaskier can't replace it. Geralt already broods too much, and he's clearly latching onto some sort of memory of whatever he has left of his soulmate.

The scar Geralt has is more than enough of a reminder at the same time it is not.

Because Geralt's made a choice, and nothing Jaskier would do will take that away from him.

.

Jaskier ends up wandering into Kaedwen, closing in on the city of Ard Carraigh. Earlier in the month, he had been at a refugee camp, making his rounds, playing a jig, doing his best to lighten the mood. Didn't do much, really. But a young, orphaned boy had steadily stood by his side, eyes bright and red as if willing himself not to sob, and Jaskier couldn't not try, When he sang softly of Geralt's exploits to the child late in the nights, the boy would look wistful and he would smile, small and sweet and shy, asking for more.

And so Jaskier kept singing.

("Is he your soulmate," the boy asks.

Jaskier looks at him and sits down at the dge of the cot, plucking mindlessly a tune on his lute. "No," he says, mindful of the bitter ache in his chest, and touches the mark on his neck. He's been thinking of Geralt more than his own soulmate, he realizes. "No, he's not."

"You talk about him as if he is."

A painful yearning tugs at his core. He swallows. "Well, I -- I love him," and admitting it aloud is so different from saying it in his own head. It's like being suckerpunched in the stomach, the air being sucked out of him. And Geralt has done him one dirty before.

The boy smile, achingly sweet. it makes Jaskier wonder why the would must be so cruel to make this child suffer, all children -- and he thinks of Cirilla, how she must be faring after Cintra fell, and of Geralt.

"Ma always told me falling in love is beautiful, no matter with who," he says.

Jaskier returns his smile and brushes the hair out of the boy's eyes, leaning down and kissing his forehead. "And it is."

"So it doesn't matter then, does it? Whether or not you're soulmates?"

Jaskier humors him and hums thoughtfully. "No, I suppose not."

The boy's grins widens and he lets out a quiet, tired breath. "I wish to fall in love soon, then."

"And you will. You'll have plenty of time, and you'll meet all sorts of people."

He mumbles softly, sinking into the cot as Jaskier tucks him in more securely. He yawns. "Can you play the song about the princess and the cursed man again?"

Jaskier smiles. "For you? Of course.")

He left not long after. The refugees had to move on, and so did he. He hugged the young boy and made sure he was safe among the people before going back on his own path.

Watching them walk reminded Jaskier of how desolate the human world was -- of why he became a bard.

When he reaches Ard Carraigh, the city bustles with an energy typical of a crowded area, seemingly ignorant of the war transpiring. They're not -- as Jaskier finds out when he comes to the gates that the guards are unforgiving. They're refusing entry without proper signed permits. An old woman turns away with a sob and a young man beside her argues with a guard, but then he's shoved and warned that if he dared cause a scene, they'll not just be denied entry, they'd be tossed into the sewers for the rats and monsters to eat. It's a message enough for the man and the woman as it is for everyone else.

Jaskier decides to not take his chance and moves on. He travels for another few hours before finally setting up camp for the night. Years of traveling with Geralt makes it easy.

He's never thought he'd say it, but he's missed it. The quiet nights under the stars, the wonderful colors blotting the sky. The cover of trees, the soft grass, the comforting chilld of the night. All Jaskier thought of it at the time was how inconvenient and grimy it was. Being with Geralt had made it bearable. Geralt, after all, was the reason Jaskier chose to be out there in the wilderness. It was a sacrifice he'd willingly, time and time again, make. And, sometimes, Geralt would make the cold nights warmer.

Perhaps that's why he misses it. Because camping was something he got to share with Geralt -- something Geralt shared with _him._

Jaskier rubs his neck, heart heavy with ache and longing.

He misses Geralt.

.

There's a small settlement that Jaskier finds somewhere along the trail, closer to the Blue Mountains. its community is small, but still big enough to have a tavern at least. A young, grey mare whinnies at him as he passes her stall just outside of the tavern, flicking her ears and tail at the sight of him, and leans forward to sniff him. Jaskier smiles, patting her, and briefly considers giving her the apple he'd been saving for the road. he doesn't think there's much harm in doing it, so he does, digging into his pack for it and holding it out for her to nip.

"There you go, my lady," Jaskier whispers and pats her head again, and receives a happy flick of her tail in response.

Jaskier turns and enters the building with a heavy sigh, exhausted and dirty, and all he wants is a nice hot bath. The barkeep greets him and nods at the lute case when Jaskier slides it off his shoulder, raising an eyebrow.

"You're a bard," he asks without question.

"That I am," Jaskier hums brightly.

"I'll give you free lodging if you care to play a jig tonight. Melitele knows these folks need their spirits raised for a change."

"Include a bath, and you've got yourself a deal."

The man nods again and hands Jaskier the key to his room. "Upstairs. First room on the left. Your bath will be ready in an hour."

Jaskier thanks him and goes to the room, depositing his belongings and flopping onto the bed. He's tired, and he wants to get some sleep in if he is to play that night, but it eludes him. He feels antsy in a way he hasn't felt in a long time. So he sighs and gets back up and decides to go down for supper, maybe.

They're skinning a snake, Jaskier finds out a bit distastefully, and kindly retracts his inquiry. He ends up wandering the village, though there isn't much to explore as small as it is. There's not even a traveling merchant. So, eventually, Jaskier turns around and returns to the tavern.

The grey mare isn't by herself, anymore. In the stall next to hers is another horse. It -- _She --_ has a beautiful, chestnut shine to her with a white stripe down her snout and -- oddly enough, quite frankly -- the hard, heavy gaze she's giving him seems...familiar.

Jaskier frowns and steps closer to inspect.

She _looks_ familiar.

And then she snorts in his face and flicks her ear.

Jaskier's heart jolts thunderously in his chest as realization dawns, lungs seizing. He jerks back.

 _"Roach?"_ he wheezes.

She tosses her head and stamps her hooves, looking sorely unimpressed. And sure enough, when Jaskier glances at her side, there is the decapitated head of a witcher's latest exploit.

 _Geralt's_ latest exploit.

"Jaskier."

Jaskier jumps. Panic takes hold, squeezing him tightly. His lungs burn. He can't _breathe._

He's not prepared. Never in a million decades would Jaskier ever be prepared. He thought he was ready. How could he have thought he was ready. He's not. _He's not._

He turns around.

Geralt stands by the tavern's entrance, arms crossed in front of him. The sight of him launches Jaskier's heart into his throat. He looks exactly the same. His bright, yellow eyes are very much the same. He has unkempt, facial hair crawling down his neck and over his face. He looks more rugged, a sharper edge to him. Tired, but wary at all times. But -- he also looks softer.

Somehow, it seems, the universe has been kind to him.

"Geralt," Jaskier answers, a bit more pathetically than what he intends. "I -- How -- How are -- you?"

Geralt glances away as his arms fall to his sides. The hollow put in Jaskier's stomach expands, and he wants to vomit.

"Fine," is all the witcher says, in the same amount of gruffness as he always has.

Jaskier nods fast, nausea building, and he still _can't fucking breathe._ Just small packets and nothing else. "Good," he says, voice strangled and quiet. _"Great."_

They stand there and do nothing else. Geralt's fists clench and release, but that's all Jaskier can see. He can't bring himself to look at Geralt's face. His chest hurts, heart pounding bruisingly against his ribs. He thinks he might just fall over.

"Jaskier," Geralt grunts again. When Jaskier's head shoots up, Geralt's expression turns caught and -- for lack of a better word -- _timid._ Jaskier's never seen Geralt hesitate, yet here he is, taking a deep breath, glancing at the ground, _glaring at it,_ and returns to rest on Jaskier, eyes hard and unyielding.

Jaskier wants to amass his anger, or whatever is left of it. His fears, his worries. He wants them back, wants them _here,_ so that he won't have to bear through this -- because screaming at Geralt would be so much easier than just _this._

Jaskier had never thought it would be so difficult.

He should have known better; it always is, with Geralt.

And then cries a tiny voice, "Geralt! I got the room!"

Jaskier's eyes immediately shoot to the open tavern door where a young girl stands, her hair dirtied grey. His eyes widen and he glances back at Geralt, who pointedly doesn't meet his gaze.

Something not unlike pride surges in him -- that Geralt really turned around to face his Destiny instead of running away from it.

The girl, Cirilla, peers up at Jaskier, eyes also wide, and flick to Geralt with what seems like fear and uncertainty.

"It's okay," Geralt says and pats her head. The gesture is so similar to when Geralt soothes Roach when she becomes uneasy that Jaskier discreetly coughs into his elbow to hide his laugh. "He's a friend."

Jaskier blinks and looks questioningly at Geralt. Geralt stares at him with heavy clarity, and Jaskier can't look away.

Cirilla turns back to Jaskier, eyes bright, suddenly. _"You're_ Jaskier."

"The one and only," Jaskier says and works up a smile, flamboyantly bowing. "And you're --"

"Fiona," Geralt cuts in and grimaces. "Her name is -- Fiona."

Jaskier nods in understanding. He toys with the collar of his doublet, fingers brushing against his neck.

Silence wafts over them once more. Jaskier's heart thunders in his chest, and out of the corner of his eyes he sees Cirilla -- _Fiona --_ shift her weight from foot to foot worriedly. Then, she straightens with determination, mouth pressed flat with a firmness very akin to Geralt's.

"We should head in," she says and goes.

Geralt hesitates, surprisingly, eyes flickering over to Jaskier, and grunts, turning to head into the tavern. Jaskier, albeit a bit reluctantly, lungs burning, heart aching, follows.

"So where have you gone, Jaskier?" Fiona asks.

Relieved to be able to fill the silence, Jaskier answers, "Oh, here and there. I was in Novigrad for a time. Very busy city, a lot of refugees came flooding in by the time I left. I was just recently teaching at Oxenfurt for the season before I caught wind of the war, and my calling came back to me. I simply couldn't resist."

Fiona looks at him unimpressed. "Geralt was right. You have no self-preservation."

Jaskier sputters. "I -- My! I most certainly do!"

"You don't," Geralt counters.

"I did not come in here to be verbally _assaulted_ by you two!"

Fiona looks at him with a smile, eyes bright and happy. Jaskier's reminded of the boy back at the refugee camp -- so young, so sweet. Happy is what they should be, not on the run, not living their life in fear.

Geralt gently nudges her forward with a hand, saying softly, "Go upstairs."

Fiona throws him a shallow, skeptical look, frowning. Jaskier nearly snickers at how closely she already resembles Geralt, especially with Geralt mirroring the expression. Something frighteningly similar to fondness warms his chest, and his breath hitches.

Fiona nods and inclines her head at the slightest angle to Jaskier. "It has been good to meet you, Jaskier."

"And I, you, dearest Fiona," Jaskier smiles.

She looks at Geralt again, firm and purposeful, to which he indulgently nods. Charming. Charming, indeed.

Gods, there's _two_ of them now.

Fiona leaves with a skip in her step. A bright thing, that she is, Jaskier muses, feeling pleased.

Geralt clears his throat, and suddenly Jaskier remembers where he is, who he is with, and his small world shatters again, heart leaping into his throat. He meets the witcher's gaze and nearly flinches when he meets warm yellow eyes. He successfully doesn't, though judging by how Geralt's expression shutters, he's clearly failed somehow. Jaskier, it seems, has forgotten how keen a witcher's senses can be.

He watches the muscle in Geralt's jaw jump and flex. The witcher's hands don't clench up, but the tightness of his mouth is the very equivalent of it. He's fretting. It makes something in Jaskier soften and he brushes the tips of his fingers against Geralt's arm. Geralt's eyes widen, muscles stiffening so fast beneath Jaskier's touch that Jaskier balks.

I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Jaskier thinks and pulls his hand away. He's overstepped himself again. He always does, with Geralt.

"Let's, uh," he starts and gestures to the tables. His voice escapes him, mouth lamely opening and closing. Mercifully, Geralt nods, and they move to the booth in the dark corner of the inn. Jaskier would laugh at the typical choice if he wasn't so anxious.

Jaskier stares at Geralt, giving him a delicate smile. His heart hammers in his chest, thundering traitorously. He glances to the door before refocusing on Geralt, who hasn't moved, hasn't twitched, eyes unnervingly set on Jaskier as if -- as if --

Jaskier doesn't know. Geralt's always been unreadable. There had been a time when Jaskier proudly believed he knew the witcher. That time has long since passed.

He swallows thickly. _"So,"_ Jaskier says, voice cracking. he winces and clenches his fists, tries again, "How have you been, Geralt?" No, he's already asked that. Go again. "I see -- I see that you've brought a -- a surprise -- with you."

Jaskier grimaces. Subtle. Very subtle. Not subtle at all.

Gods, must this be so difficult? He doesn't remember it being so -- _cumbersome,_ before. Before -- Before, Jaskier would just talk, and Geralt would listen without listening, and it would be easy.

Geralt nods, though. He doesn't glare at Jaskier, doesn't shut him up, doesn't sigh and leave. It's -- It's different. Something's changed. Jaskier doesn't mean to perk up, but he foolishly, negligently does. He always does.

"Jaskier," he says again, and doesn't say anything else. He takes a deep breath, but doesn't do much else.

"That's my name," Jaskier jokes. "You saying it won't wear it out."

Patience. Patience. Let him speak on his own terms, he'll come around. He always does.

"I'm," Geralt starts gruffly before cutting off, voice cracking horridly. His teeth grind against each other roughly enough that Jaskier winces. Geralt's eyes go unfocused and distant, mouth pressed to a flat, thin line, the muscles in his jaw tight and fixed in a way Jaskier just knows is painful just as it is punishing.

Don't do it, Jaskier wants to plead. Don't shut him out again.

He hesitates for a moment, but Jaskier reaches out and covers Geralt's clenched hand. Geralt jolts, eyes clearing and centering and widening on Jaskier. And when Jaskier doesn't pull away this time, Geralt takes Jaskier's hand in his, softly, gently, _tenderly,_ and Jaskier nearly breaks at the flood of warmth spilling across his chest.

"I'm sorry," he rasps, hands warm and imperceptibly shaking, holding Jaskier's as if he were fragile glass. As if Jaskier would break if he moved too roughly, too forcefully -- as if Jaskier would simply disappear at the first wrong movement, and Geralt wouldn't stop him.

Gods, this man. So callously _dumb._

Jaskier's eyes burn and blur and he pointedly keeps his eyes on their joined hands. Breathing seems barely possible, his chest hurts, his throat unbelievably tight, and his heart is unbearably heavy and hurting. He squeezes Geralt's hands as he stifles a sniffle. Geralt, startling, squeezes back. Jaskier looks up at him, and lets out a strangled, hearty laugh -- because Geralt's face is twisting between uncertain mirth and impassive vexation.

At Jaskier's laugh, it seems Geralt's come to a decision. His entire body relaxes, the tension flowing out of his shoulders, and he sits straighter. His hand holds firmer, surer, but still gentle enough so that Jaskier can pull away at any moment, running his calloused thumb over Jaskier's knuckles -- and Jaskier feels a warmth swelling in his chest, filling in the empty space he's felt there this entire time. There's just the slightest quirk of Geralt's lips upward, and Jaskier's can't help the smile that breaks out upon his own.

Geralt's eyes are much brighter, gleaming with what looks like hope, akin to the sun shining after a dark, rainy night -- as rich as molten gold, _as soft as sunflowers and dandelions --_

Jaskier grins toothily, face hot, eyes wet, and croaks out, "You're a dumbass."

Geralt's eyes crinkle at the edges, eyes gleaming with mirth, smile beautifully widening, and says, quietly, "Yeah," and squeezes Jaskier's hand once more in affirmation.

They stay like that for a time -- sometimes speaking, sometimes not. Jaskier is much too tired to find out for how long, and even yawn. He feels the adrenaline ebb away from him. The heavy block of ice in his chest that's been growing in Geralt's absence melts, and, with it, his fight, his anger, his sorrow. He feels like he can just curl up then and there and sleep, nevermind the bed waiting for him. Geralt frowns, head tilting curiously -- endearingly.

"You should head up," he suggests. "The barkeep says you have a performance tonight."

Jaskier barely stifles another yawn. "That I do. They're setting up a bath, so I should go."

Neither of them move. Their hands stay clasped together. Geralt's thumb keeps smoothing over Jaskier's knuckles. The warmth keeps expanding in his chest, feels it exploding and spreading like a fever throughout his body. Feels the pleasant tingles it leaves behind.

It feels like being whole.

Jaskier looks at Geralt, and he's pleasantly shocked to find Geralt already staring at him, pupils dilated, eyes warm and gentle, crinkling with laugh lines at the corner. Jaskier squeezes their hands again. Geralt meets it, and, this time, holds firm and steady.

A grin splits across Jaskier's face.

He thinks he is -- _whole._

.

Later, Geralt helps lead him up the stairs into his room, the whole while not letting go of his hand. It feels wrong to even consider it, really. It makes something settle at his core, warm and soft and pleasing. It makes him happy. And judging by how content and relaxed Geralt is, he is too.

At the door, Jaskier refuses to go inside. He doesn't want this to end. It feels like a dream. A beautiful one. A surreal one. His heart pounds. He fears that it is. That, maybe, he had succumbed to his exhaustion earlier and conjured up this fantasy. His breath hitches.

Geralt frowns at him. Eyes gleaming knowingly. "I'm here," he grunts.

Jaskier nods and looks away, elation and embarrassment filling his core. He coughs and says, "Well, this was lovely and all but --" His voice comes small and weak, "-- I suppose I'll see you tomorrow?"

"We're leaving in the morning."

Jaskier deflates. "Right. I hope -- I wish the both of you safe travel."

Geralt doesn't miss a beat and brings Jaskier's hand up to his lips and presses his lips to the back of it. The bristles of his beard scratch against Jaskier's hand.

"Oh," Jaskier chokes, cheeks heating, heart lurching.

Geralt smiles, a small, hopeful thing. "Come with us, tomorrow."

 _Yes. Yes yes yes --_ "Of course, dear Witcher," he says, voice breaking.

Geralt nods and releases his hand after squeezing it again. Jaskier immediately feels forlorn. "Tomorrow, then," he says."

Jaskier smiles at him. "Tomorrow."

They part ways, and not long after that, the barmaid comes in to set up his bath. She looks at him beneath her lashes, smiling coyly at him, but Jaskier doesn't pay her any mind. He tips her for her service and nothing more despite her obvious disappointment.

He hums happily as he takes off his clothes, body aching with exhaustion. The collar of his tunic chafes against his sensitive neck as he pulls it off and he winces. Jaskier looks over his shoulder at the mirror as he rubs his neck, and turns away. Then, he double-takes and looks back to it. His fingers graze along his soulmark.

Bold and sharp and small, it says **_I'm sorry_** \-- Geralt had rasped out, voice grated and soft and unsure.

Jaskier's heart stutters and stops.

Oh.

The mark burns. It vibrates with a muted vigor.

_Oh._

.

.

.

.

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**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I'm not new to AO3, per se, but there's a lot of features I'm just figuring out -- like making a series!
> 
> Also, thank you so much for all the kudos and comments on the other work! I didn't think it would be that well received. I'm so sorry I haven't replied to any of them. I've been trying to think of what to say as a reply, but I'm socially inept and I sort of panic because I don't want to sound like a creep. Still, thank you so much -- I'm glad that you guys liked it that much. I will eventually answer those comments!! That is, when I get my head out of my ass.
> 
> I've also just realized that I never talked about the idea I was working behind, which is "The mark/tattoo you're born with is what your soulmate says when they mean they love you." I had this in my head ever since 1x04 and I've finally made something out of it.
> 
> This fic ended on a much happier note than I originally intended for it. This entire fic was meant to be nothing more than angst, and Geralt coming forward to whisper, "I'm sorry," to Jaskier and walk away and leave.
> 
> I hoped you guys enjoyed reading this; thank you so much for reading! I can only hope you like this as much as the other one, but if not, that's perfectly fine too.
> 
> Title comes from Winter Aid's "The Wisp Sings."


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